


I'll see the dark things that you all try to hide

by sleep_pronoia (nap_princess)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Ending, Based on this dream I had, Gen, Mentions of Death, Second person POV, different dimension, maybe fae AU idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26240008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nap_princess/pseuds/sleep_pronoia
Summary: You're twenty-four and still not ready





	I'll see the dark things that you all try to hide

**I'll see the dark things that you all try to hide**

* * *

* * *

You don't know how you ended up here; in this house with its closed-curtain windows and shadowy halls and dark carpets, but you stand apart from the throng of people dressed in lace and linen and silks.

Like them, you are a visitor. You know this isn't your home; these aren't your pictures framed on the walls, these aren't your books stacked on top of each other and that hideous matching-set sofa is damn well not yours either.

But, you are more foreign than meets the eye. You don't belong in this realm. It's too dark, too crowded, too sinister.

Those in your company and this manor's staff insist. They won't let you leave. They say you are to stay here.

_"You belong here,"_ They say so surely, like they know you best, all your life — in fact. _"Your husband-to-be is one of the sons who owns this land."_

'Who?' You want to ask, but don't. Asking would make things too personal, too intimidating. It'd open up a row of new doors, and you're not sure you want to open a new door.

You want to exit one instead, leave this place for ever (or, until you're ready. And you're not now. It's too soon. Too unexpectedly fast. Andandand —)

You've only seen the young master in glimpses, at the edge of your vision where he swims among the sea of faceless entities. He walks about, greeting and conversing, but he never goes up to you.

Oh, _never_!

But it's not because it's beneath him to approach you first, he just has his beliefs and principles. He won't insist or force you to stay; he's not like the others. He thinks the game they're playing is silly.

And yet, he doesn't stop them either. Instead, he lets them do what they please; in which they steal your shoes, block your paths, and thrust their alcoholic drinks at your face.

It feels like there's no escape. You hate this place.

So you walk out of the house and into the light, your feet still bare. You want to be away from the darkness cloaking this supposed home. The sun is bright and the garden party has an orchestra entertaining empty faces. The music sounds dream-like, like something you've heard out of a _Ghibli_ film. _Howl's Moving Castle_ , perhaps? You don't know. You can't put a finger on it.

But does it matter? The real question is: How. did. you. get. here? You really oughta retrace your steps.

What was the last thing you did? Take a nature walk and fall asleep among the grass? You were feeling feverish this morning, maybe this is a fever dream? Are you _Alice in Wonderland_? If so, you want to wake up now. You know you should.

(But you also know, if this is indeed a dream, then there's a chance you might visit a second time in yet another bad tip of unconsciousness. And when that time comes around, you might not be as lucky. You might not be able to wake up.)

Or maybe you walked into a fairy ring while on your way to your destination? _Bloody mushrooms._ Are you trapped in the fae world now? _Crap_ , what even are the rules? You've obviously already broken a few by stepping into this universe and speaking to these conscious beings. Well, you haven't told them your name yet or eaten any of the food or drunk any of the wine, that's a win, isn't it?

But does your recollection even line up with the time-line?

You were going to get _McDonald's_ and pick up scar gel from the drug store, weren't you? You doubt this place has a fast-food restaurant or medicine you're used to. They probably serve pretentious food like oysters and _escargot_ (both of which you've had — the oysters tasted like the bottom of the seafloor and the _escargot_ was served at a restaurant where they poured water out of a fancy watering can. The _escargot_ tasted like chewy garlic bread, you'd rather eat carbs and butter than overpriced snails any day).

You _won't_ fit in here. You _don't_.

And as this realisation comes crashing onto you, moving with the flow of the orchestra's string music, you sink to your feet. You sit outside on the pretty green lawn in your pretty blue dress.

You push your face into your knees and weep. If anyone talks to you, you'll bite their heads off, you swear. They can't keep you here, they can't!

They don't even have light switches, they probably don't have heaters or fans or the internet either. What the hell are you gonna do here? Listen to classical music all day and listen to fae politics? _Fuck off!_

"Ahem," The sound of someone clearing his throat startles you.

Your shoulders tense and you stop crying, but you don't lift your head. Not entirely, at least. You've got your pride. You've got some dignity to not look like a complete disaster.

The man is patient and you peek an eye among the folds of your dress, catching a glimpse of the cuffs of his trousers and his polished shoes. You hope he doesn't ask you to dance.

"Would you like to go home?" The gentleman's cool voice asks.

You think it's a trick question. One where you'll say, 'God, yes!' and he'll laugh and tell you, 'This is your home now, silly girl!'

"I've got to leave," You say, not exactly pleading, but not entirely turn off by the idea either. "I can't stay here."

The man doesn't say anything at first. He takes his time; staring ahead and dragging his tongue against the row of his bottom teeth. His face is like everyone else's — hidden behind a masquerade mask. But you think he should be a handsome fellow — with his high cheekbones, full lips and good skin.

No, he's definitely handsome.

_He's prettier than I'll ever be._ You think to yourself before telling him, "I'm only twenty-four."

In response to this, he pulls out a golden-chain watch from the inside of his suit. Then he laughs, as if his watch had told him a funny little joke.

_Looney bin,_ You say to yourself in the privacy of your head. _He thinks he's_ Belle _from_ Beauty and the Beast.

"My dear," He says, snapping the golden contraption shut. He's done counting down the minutes. "It's not a matter of you being _only_ twenty-four, it's a fact that you're _already_ twenty-four."

You feel the colour drain from your face. Just like how there are only twenty-four hours in a day, you've only got twenty-four years in your life. Where did all your days go? Your hours and minutes and seconds? Did you waste it all until the long sleeper cry?

* * *

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Sick again, which means — weird fever dreams! And more oddness to add to my dream journal!
> 
> — 2 September 2020


End file.
